


Sippy Cup

by RequiemForTheWolves



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Gangs, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Prostitution, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7389049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RequiemForTheWolves/pseuds/RequiemForTheWolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At age twenty everyone was located and taken to government facilities to be Tested. If you passed you were allowed over the wall. You had to be smart enough, pretty enough, and have a clean enough record. </p>
<p>“My aunt says I can make it over.”</p>
<p>“That's good, baby boy.” Deadpool cooed at him.</p>
<p>“No, it's really not.” Peter said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sippy Cup

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics taken from Melanie Martinez's Sippy Cup. Self-betaed.

 

_Blood still stains when the sheets are washed_

_Sex don't sleep when the lights are off_

_Kids are still depressed when you dress them up_

_And syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup._

 

          By the time Peter was thirteen he could shoot just as well as Aunt May.

          By the time he was fifteen he was better, but most of that was due to practice. Aunt May's job at the corner store kept her busy, and Peter's constant roaming of the streets meant he had to stay in shape.

           He was only eleven when they had been moved back over the wall. Initially the only reason Aunt May had been allowed into the Upper Side was because she was married to Uncle Ben when he passed the Tests. She but had been allowed to remain so long as she proved herself worthy in a reform group. After Uncle Ben's heart attack though, her previous record of pick pocketing when she was young had them tossed out to the Lower Side. Her guilt was a heavy burden, but Peter soon understood. Surviving in the Lower Side was hard, especially for a child. He could never blame her.

           He fell into her footsteps with ease, was quiet and swift in the noisy, grimy streets of his home. On the Lower Side no one ever had much in their wallets, but any extra change he could bring home was always worth the risk of getting caught and receiving marks on his record.

           At fifteen he took up the occasional hobby of selling himself (if only when times were hard and they desperately needed rent money). Thankfully he was young and pretty, earning him enough offers to keep them from getting evicted. He was slim, but sturdy enough that he wouldn't break, and the bruises he usually got on his hips (among other places) didn't last long. On those nights he returned home with a bad taste in his mouth, but he liked eating more than he disliked (usually bad) sex with strangers.

           Aunt May hated it, but they had gotten rather good at understanding each other since they moved. She would accept the money with a frown before pulling him into a hug, tucking his too tall head under her chin and not letting him go for a long time. Sometimes afterward he would crawl into bed with her on nights that were too dark, making sure to keep his head clear of the revolver under her pillow.

           He was seventeen when he met the merc with the mouth.

           He had been cutting through a back alley, trying to beat the setting sun home with a carton of eggs in his backpack when a large figure materialized out of the shadows. His hand quickly found the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, trembling slightly but still firm. He hated killing. It never failed to make him sick afterwards. It was the reason that every night Aunt May took his trembling hands into hers and told him that everything he'd done was an effort to stay alive in a world determined to see his end.

           Before he could even draw his gun a bullet hole appeared in the figure's forehead. It slumped forward, and Peter stepped back so blood wouldn't get on his shoes. Behind where the large mass of a man had stood was a man in a red and black hoodie. His face was disfigured by scars and his blue eyes were wild. He held a still smoking gun in his hand.

           “Wow. I just totally saved your life, didn't I?” He said without preamble. “That's so weird. Good for you that I was here then, huh? Five minutes later and you'd'a been like this guy, though probably a bit messier.” While he talked the man began searching the body for something, digging carelessly through pockets and tossing away things he didn't want.

           Peter sniffed and squared his shoulders. “I could have taken care of myself.”

           “Yea right, Spidey. I'm gonna call you that from now on. Cool shirt by the way.” Peter looked down at the big sketch of a spider printed across his shirt and rolled his eyes. “You don't look like you could hurt a fly, which makes the whole Spidey nickname even funnier. Go me. But you've got that whole skinny, gangly limbs thing going on. Which don't get me wrong, I totally respect that. Great job looking super fuckable. But I don't know if you could defend yourself. You look kinda twelve.”

           Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you just say you wanna fuck me even though I look twelve?” Sure, Peter had been having sex with older men way before he was at the age of consent, but that was beside the point. And anyway this guy didn't look much older than Peter himself.

           The man sighed. “It's an expression, Spidey. Gee, you must not get out much. It means you look young. Calm your tits. You look old enough to be fuckable, definitely.” He pulled a ring off the dead man's finger and pocketed it.

           “What's your name?” Peter asked. Usually he knew enough to mind his own business, but he also usually didn't get saved by perfect strangers. An exception seemed somewhat appropriate.

           The man's grin was a flash of perfect white teeth. “Name's Deadpool. At least to people who have business with me.” He stood straight again, placing him a head over Peter and with shoulders considerably wider.

           “You ask to get called that in bed too?”

           The man's smile turned sly. “It's sexier than you might think.” He gave Peter a once over and then shrugged. “Well, it was fun Spidey, but I gotta go do boring business stuff. You know, fuck bitches get money and all that, though mostly just the money part.” He turned and waved good-bye with the hand still holding his gun. “Hope I see you around some time though.”

           And he did see Deadpool around. Once Peter met the merc it seemed he couldn't shake him. He'd be spotted on the streets with a “hey, Spidey!” and he swore every time he walked into a Mexican restaurant the man was there, gesturing to the seat across from him over a large mound of food.

           The rumors said Deadpool didn't have a soft side. Somehow Peter had managed to get on it anyway.

           Unfortunately, Deadpool did actually save his ass one time, which was something he would never let Peter live down. He'd walked on the wrong street, which was easier to do than one would think. Territories rotated so frequently it was hard to say which gang owned which street on any given day. Apparently the latest regime change hadn’t weighed in Peter’s favor. He’d been pulled into an ally and had his gun taken, been beaten within an inch of his life. When Deadpool showed up he looked like he was having more fun than normal taking the gang's heads off with his katanas.

           “It's a good thing I like you, baby boy.” The merc said as blood dripped from his swords and Peter clutched at his bruised ribs. “Otherwise you'd never be able to afford all the work I just did for you.”

           Deadpool took Peter back to his own apartment, helped him patch himself up with his well-stocked first-aid kit. When Peter's skin was about forty percent bandages he laid out on Deadpool's couch, his head in the merc's lap as the man's calloused fingers ran through his hair. Peter leaned into the touch, half high on knock-off pain meds.

           “How many years do you have left?” The scarred man asked in a quiet moment of seriousness.

           “Two and a half.” It wasn't much, and each day the knot in Peter’s stomach grew.

           At age twenty everyone was located and taken to government facilities to be Tested. If you passed you were allowed over the wall. You had to be smart enough, pretty enough, and have a clean enough record. Aunt May had messed up by getting caught as a kid. Peter had never gotten caught, and May liked to tell him that he would make it over when he came of age. The thought of leaving her alone made him sick.

           “My aunt says I can make it over.”

           “That's good, baby boy.” Deadpool cooed at him.

           “No, it's really not.” Peter said. The merc shrugged. He'd been tested two years ago and hadn't had a chance in hell. “What's your real name?”

           “Peter.”

           Peter frowned. “No, that's my name.”

           Deadpool stuck out his tongue. “I know. Your aunt writes your name on the tags of your clothes. Bless her.”

           “So?” Peter prompted.

           Deadpool gently tugged at the boy's hair a bit. He tickled under Peter's chin until the brunet swatted his hand away. “Wade. My name is Wade.”

           “It's nice to meet you, Wade.” Peter smiled.

           The merc was quick to mirror his expression. “You too, baby boy.”

           Later, when Wade found out that Peter had the habit of working corners for spare cash, he thrust $400 into the boy's hands and asked how much it would buy him. They spent that night fucking on every available surface in Wade's apartment. The merc was surprisingly gentle, holding Peter with reverence and only using force when Peter asked (read: begged) for it. Peter couldn't help it. They had been eye fucking each other for weeks, and the release to the buildup was fantastic. Afterward Wade cuddled him in bed, spooning up to him like Peter allowed of no one, but he couldn't quite bring himself to mind.

           It didn't take them long to pick up the habit of sleeping together like they were committed, and Wade liked to joke that he was Peter's sugar daddy. (He made a t-shirt and everything, that way it was official).

           “I don't like that you kill people for money.” Peter said one night while tossing popcorn into Wade's mouth as they lounged on his couch.

           The other man swallowed before shrugging. “Yea. But you sure like the way my dick in your ass pays the rent.”

           Peter shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Wade had him there.

           At nineteen Peter started to get anxious. Amazingly his record was somehow still clean, and his Aunt May was right when she said he would pass the Test. He couldn't leave her alone though. He hated himself enough for spending nearly half his nights at Wade's. She had handled herself during a break in before, but more often than not Peter had been there to take care of it. He wasn't going to just abandon her for the fucking Upper Side.

           And then of course there was Wade.

           “I don't want to go.” Peter told him while resting on his chest one night. They were both sticky, but also too lazy to get up and clean themselves. They had long passed the point where Peter had started sleeping with Wade because he wanted to, and Wade paid his and May's rent because he didn't want to see them on the streets.

           Wade stroked a hand down Peter's back, skin scraping rough against Peter's smooth. “I think I can help you with that.”

           A week later Peter was practically chugging a flask of vodka while Wade took a knife to his arm. A good sum of money had bought the information as to where their government trackers were located, and Wade had offered to take his out so that the pain wouldn't cause Peter to fuck it up. By the time bloody rags had been scattered all over the bed Wade finally managed to extract a small metal chip. He threw it on the ground and crushed it under his boot.

           Government computers reported that Peter Parker died four weeks before his twentieth birthday.

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

           Being with Wade seemed to make the streets easier. (It did. He was labeled Deadpool's bitch, but at least it took the place of the constant target on his back). Wade was well known as someone you didn't want to fuck with, and that meant for the most part he was left alone.

           That didn't mean that jobs couldn't go wrong though. That the first time the merc ever showed up at Peter's house he was bleeding from everything but his teeth, slumped against the door so that when Peter opened it he fell directly into the hall, blood splattering against the wood floor.

           Peter swallowed down his scream, knew it wouldn't help anyone, and after checking to make sure he was still breathing dragged Wade over to the couch. When Aunt May came down stairs to see what was going on, revolver clutched tightly by her side, she simply grimaced and nodded, not asking any questions. She left to find the first-aid kit while Peter held Wade's bloody hand, stroked his forehead and cooed reassuring words while the merc made unintelligible noises, some obviously trying to be words while others were simply grunts of pain.

           It was a long night for everyone, and in the morning Peter held a near catatonic Wade as they dozed on the couch.

           Later that day, the mercenary shook Aunt May's hand as they were formally introduced. His stance was bashful and he kept Peter close. May's smile was gentle despite the hardness of her years, and her eyes were stern as she looked back and forth between the two of them and told them to take care of each other. Wade nodded his head vigorously and Peter smiled into the larger man's shoulder.

           It was a promise the mercenary intended to keep, but Wade couldn't be with him all the time. It showed when the newest group of adolescents got thrown back over the wall. They were always the most dangerous group of people on the Lower Side, thrilled with the new found availability of drugs and weapons that they grew up without. They picked fights just for the sake of it, for the thrill of violence against their knuckles, and didn't give a damn about the damage they caused. It would take years for the streets to beat enough sense into them to mind their own business, and until they were jaded enough to know better they thought they walked the streets like kings.

           Knowing this, it was impossible to think that any other group of twenty-somethings would back Peter into a corner like they did, would put their hands on what was known as a killer's property with such determination. It was the middle of the day, but the ring leader's hand wrapped around Peter's wrist that had once held a gun, and his breath trickled down the smaller man's neck with a warmth that made him want to gag.

           The best course of action would have been to just take it. It would have hurt but the pain would have been considerably less. But violence and pride had been pumped into Peter's blood since he was young. He could give a punch to the gut just as well as he could receive one, and he wouldn't go down without a fight. He shoved his knee into his captor's crotch and watched as his assailants descended.

           It lasted longer than he thought anything could. When it was over he stayed down for a while, waiting for either scavengers or death to take him, but no one came. Eventually he managed to pick himself up, pull his pants back up around his waist and brace himself against a wall. He tried to stand, thought maybe he could make it the short distance home on his own, but his legs gave out beneath him. He sat alone for a moment, surrounded by the smell of trash and piss and sex and tried to gather his emotions. His blood was slowly forming a puddle underneath him, and he breathed hard through his teeth.

           When tears had stopped running down his cheeks and he was sure his voice wouldn't waver he pulled out his phone.

           “Yellow?” Wade answered, barely audible over the sound of a chicken squawking in the background.

           “Wade-” Peter's voice broke and he cursed himself silently.

           The chicken gave one loud squawk before falling silent. “What's wrong, baby boy?”

           Peter bit down hard on his lip at the threat of a sob until it passed. “I need you to come get me.”

           An hour later he was sprawled out on Wade's bed, the sheets stained with blood and sweat. He had lost consciousness before Wade could get to him, but when he woke up the merc was sitting on the bed with him, Peter's legs draped over his lap. Tears were running silently down Wade's cheeks, catching in his scarred and warped flesh, gathering there before traveling onward. Every now and then his breath caught, and his eyes stared dimly into the distance.

           Peter reached out a hand, felt fatigue travel through his very bones at the simple action as he tried to touch Wade. When the other man noticed he leaned closer, closing his eyes at the caress to his cheek. He took Peter's hand in his own, pressed kisses to his fingertips. “You should have gone across that goddamn wall when you had the chance, baby boy.”

           Peter pinched the other man's nose. “You didn't feel that way last night.”

           “That's 'cause last night you were in my bed for a different reason.” Wade said, voice high and nasally. He removed Peter's hand, placed a kiss to his scraped knuckles. “It's not safe here.”

           “It's not safe for anyone here.” Peter countered. “What makes me so much better than you or Aunt May that I should be kept safe while you two stay here? We keep each other safe, that's what we do. We're family.”

           Wade smiled. He laid down next to Peter gently, careful not to jostle him as he snuggled into the smaller man's side. “Yea, baby boy. Just one big, happy family.”


End file.
